


Thicker than Water

by Ellenar_Ride



Category: The Legend of Zelda & Related Fandoms
Genre: Aggressive Arguments, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Dissociation, Drama, Found Family, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Invasion of Privacy, Linked Universe (Legend of Zelda), Modern AU, Stalking, Temporary Character Death, fictional religion
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-21
Updated: 2020-10-21
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:28:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27140416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ellenar_Ride/pseuds/Ellenar_Ride
Summary: The holidays are a time for family. For peace. The Winter Festival in particular is a time for looking back and looking forward. If only the results of Time'slooking backweren't so determined to make sure there will be no morelooking forward.
Comments: 7
Kudos: 46





	Thicker than Water

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Home Sweet Home](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24746758) by [St0rmy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/St0rmy/pseuds/St0rmy). 



_The Horror not to be surveyed—_ _  
__But skirted in the Dark—_ _  
__With Consciousness Suspended—_ _  
__And Being under Lock—_

Wild is alone in a sea of misty gray. There is nothing above or below him, nothing around him, nothing anywhere—all there is, is gray. Whatever surrounds him, it shifts like currents in a pool, cool against his skin.

_“Be at ease, Child.”_

The soft voice echoes from every direction, and despite himself Wild relaxes. The tension in his shoulders eases as he begins to feel safe. He tries to speak, but he can’t. It bothers him less than it should.

_“Child, do you know him?”_

As the voice speaks, all Wild can think about is Time. The old man’s face appears in his mind’s eye, and he cannot say if it is his own memory or the owner of the voice pushing images into his head. Still, he smiles. Better than he knows anyone else.

_“Child, do you love him?”_

Wild scoffs, though no sound escapes his lips. Does he love Time? Of course he does, that’s a stupid question. They don’t always agree. They have their old wounds, and habitual arguments, and jagged edges that don’t line up. But the old man is the old man, and Wild loves him anyway.

_“Child, will you help him?”_

Of course Wild will help! If the old man is in trouble, he’ll do everything he can to help. Time is family, Time is precious even if he can’t see it himself, and Wild won’t leave him to struggle alone. Getting Time to _accept_ help will be the hard part—the man is stubborn like that.

_“Then reach out, Child, and shine a lamp into the dark of his life.”_

Wild is, as most of his family would put it, a _dirty rotten no-good morning person._ Personally, he thinks that’s a little rude, but if he put stock in _all_ their various whims he’d never get anything done, so he’s elected to ignore it. Besides, he’s the one who makes breakfast (the one who makes every meal, really), so they have no right to complain.

Tuesday is Sky’s assigned day as Breakfast Helper, so naturally, Wild has just finished dragging his still-sleeping brother into the kitchen and pouring him into one of the chairs, where he drapes over the table without stirring once. Business as usual. Assigning one of his brothers to help him make breakfast every morning is great in theory, but in _practice_ all it means is there’s another body in the kitchen. If they wake up at all, they’re only half-coherent, and none of them are exactly great chefs even at their best.

Now, what to make for breakfast? He has all the time in the world, thanks to the holiday, but he’s really not in the mood for anything huge today. Maybe staying up until one in the morning catching up with Wars was a bad plan, but his brothers come first. His brothers _always_ come first.

Well, digging through the fridge usually fixes this sort of problem—boundaries always spark his imagination. But there’s a note taped to the fridge that solves the dilemma before he opens the door. A neatly-written meal plan in familiar handwriting: _Oatmeal, fruit, tea._

 _Time_ has a breakfast request? A boring request, but still. The world must be ending. But if the old man wants to be boring, who is Wild to stand in his way? He can work with this.

He composes a mental checklist and starts working through it. A large pot for oatmeal, a small pot for heating up syrup. Nine cups of water in the big pot, mixed with a dash of salt, on the stove to boil. A third of a cup of maple syrup in the small pot to warm up. The canister of traditional oats is on the counter, waiting to be needed.

He fills the electric kettle and turns it on, then starts looking for fruit. There are oranges, apples, and raspberries in the fridge. Wild glares at the bananas on the counter before deciding to include them—Time is bizarrely fond of them these days. The raspberries only need to be rinsed, lightly tossed to dry, and piled into a bowl, but the rest of the fruit is higher maintenance. As Wild starts peeling oranges, the kettle beginning to come to a boil in the background, Sky snores and shifts in his sleep. In a fit of petty boredom and frustration with the sound, Wild throws an orange peel at his head. It bounces off of a tousled mess of dirty blond and lands on the table.

Sky doesn’t so much as twitch.

It’s almost a game now, tossing orange peels at Sky in between separating wedges, seeing how many bounce off and how many stay. Next he chops the apples—three into slices and one into cubes—and he only just has time to toss them with a little bit of lemon juice before the kettle demands his attention.

On the way back to the counter, he kicks Sky’s chair to wake him—gently, of course, there’s no need to be mean. Sky needs his sleep, and Wild won’t hold that against him.

Sky stirs awake with a sleepy smile and a clouded gaze, picking orange peels from his hair as he sits up, and starts peeling and slicing bananas while Wild attends to the kettle. Time didn’t specify what _kind_ of tea, but knowing him—yeah, he was right. Opening the tea cabinet, he finds one canister pulled to the front. Ginger root? That’s not a frequent choice, but again. If Time is going to make an actual request for once in a blue moon, Wild will bend over backwards to accommodate it. Maybe if he sees requests actually do make a difference, he’ll be willing to make them more often.

There’s a bottle of honey and a fresh lemon sitting with the canister—Wild can take a hint. He pours the water into the teapot, adds the ginger to the strainer, and leaves it to steep while he returns to the stove, where the water is now boiling and it’s time to add the oatmeal and turn down the heat. It needs to cook for five minutes; he makes use of that time to juice the lemon and transfer the now-warm syrup into a small bowl, stopping to stir the oatmeal halfway through.

Sky is almost done slicing bananas when Wild takes the bowl of syrup to the table. Time to get a move on, then—he mixes the last bit of water from the kettle with sugar and lemon juice to make a simple syrup, which he leaves on the table for Sky to coat the banana slices with. No need to let them brown.

Then the oatmeal is done and he dishes it out into bowls, splitting it nine ways. Lemon juice into the tea; teapot, cups, and bowls on the table. Cooking pot into the sink to soak, because dried oatmeal is a _nightmare_ to clean up. Brown sugar and cinnamon from the pantry, and the honey from the cabinet, and breakfast is ready.

Sky steps out of the kitchen, and a moment later Wild hears him yell (or not yell, precisely, Sky leans more towards speaking loudly than yelling) down the bedroom hall that it’s time for breakfast. Wild, meanwhile, goes over to the kitchen window—the one that’s not behind the table—and slides it open, climbing halfway out to look up at the roof.

Are they—yup. Wars and Legend are on the roof. Again.

They look down at him, and Wars seems surprised that it’s already time for breakfast. Well, it’s not shocking that he hasn’t gotten back into the routine yet.

He shimmies back in through the window, quickly followed by his agitated brothers. Maybe he should ask what’s bothering them? He decides against it, in the end—their expressions suggest this isn’t the time. Legend casts a final suspicious look out at the street as he closes the window behind him.

Paranoid.

Breakfast is as chaotic of an affair as always. Fast-paced, if good-natured, arguments fill the air: Wind is hoarding the syrup, Wars took Hyrule’s regular seat, Legend objects to oatmeal on principle—the lattermost is the only one Wild involves himself in, shutting it down without hesitation. He’s not going to let anyone undermine his efforts to get Time to speak up for himself, intentionally or otherwise. (Honestly, he thinks Legend only shuts up because he’s so surprised “easygoing Wild” is being so stubborn he can’t think of a response fast enough.)

No-one mentions the tenth chair, empty and cold. Wild can’t wait for Ma to get back from the ranch.

Eight bowls end up filled with increasingly bizarre combinations of toppings, but the ninth is plain and unaltered. Wild won’t say anything about it, and he does his best not to stare either, but he doesn’t understand how Time can eat plain oatmeal. Between that and the bananas, he’s starting to think the old man is actually a demon in disguise. (But aren’t they all, really? Wild won’t hold it against him.)

Time stands up and puts his bowl in the sink. “There’s a storm coming—keep close to the house.”

He hesitates, and Wild can’t quite squash the hope that he’s going to reach out. But after a long moment, his expression smooths out to polished marble and he withdraws into his own world again.

“I’ll be in my office,” he says, perfectly polite, and walks out of the kitchen.

He takes the teapot with him.

_… severe storm set to hit the city Thursday night, if it keeps to its current course. Residents are advised to move all non-permanent exterior items indoors, as winds are expected to reach—_

Four slinks into the kitchen as Wild is about to start making lunch, almost as though he’s trying not to be seen. Almost as though they hadn’t arranged to cook this meal together over two weeks ago. Wild chuckles and shakes his head, turning off the radio. “Are you coming in or not?”

Four huffs, but joins him at the counter. “Are you _sure_ this is a good idea? Food doesn’t really seem right, for Them—”

Wild ruffles Four’s hair, ignoring his indignant cry and the small-but-calloused hands that bat at his wrist. “Are you suggesting your own patron doesn’t enjoy the taste of food, Four? Besides, plenty of people make new recipes for Them, and They’ve never rejected anyone over it. It’s something new, that’s enough.”

It’s what he’d done for all of his Winter Offerings, right up until he declared Autumn, and what he plans to do again once he’s an adult.

“It can’t just be enough, Wild! It has to be perfect!”

Wild sighs and turns to face Four completely. His brother sports a truly impressive glower, but indignity is only a thin disguise over a well of uncertainty and fear.

“Take a breath, okay? It _doesn’t_ have to be perfect, which is good, because it never will be. You’ve never been this worried about a gift before—is it because you’re leading the ceremony this year?”

 _“No!_ Maybe. … yes.”

Wild pulls Four into a one-armed hug, and it’s a testament to how upset he is that he doesn’t protest at all. “Hey, you’re going to do fine. You haven’t messed up in the last eight years, and you’re not going to now. Besides, a new field is technically the best thing to do for the Spirit of Innovation, right?”

Four mumbles something indecipherable into Wild’s shirt.

“Hmm? What was that?”

Four explodes into motion, jerking away from Wild and flinging one arm out in a sweeping gesture. “I haven’t had to _lead_ it before! What if I forget something? And it’s my job to make sure Wind does everything right, too!”

Wild pokes his forehead and he subsides, sputtering. “Four. Your patron isn’t going to abandon you for wearing the wrong clothes or messing up your phrasing. You know what you’re making for your Offering, you know how to present it, and you know what story you need to tell Wind. Liege Winter loves you, just like They love all Their students. It’s going to be okay.”

How long has Four been upset about this without saying anything? He wouldn’t put it past his brother to have been bottling this up since last year. Four may only be one year younger than him, but he’s always been twice as solemn and withdrawn. Sometimes Wild wishes Four would be a little less restrained.

Four sighs, shoulders slumping, and leans back into Wild’s side. “Yeah, okay. Okay. I’m just—worried.”

“It’s stressful, I get it. But hey, at least you only have to lead _Wind_ through it. I don’t know _how_ Legend and Twilight manage to lead ceremonies with the old man participating.”

Four shakes his head. “Ugh, don’t even joke about that… did Legend really have to drag him to the shrine last Autumn?”

Wild laughs. “No, no. I don’t think any of us _could_ drag him anywhere, not unless he let us, anyway. But Legend did scold him something fierce and accuse him of setting a bad example. Tensest ceremony of my life, I swear. Seems like they’ve let it go now, but who really knows with those two?”

Four trembles against his side. Wild frowns—did that really upset him so much? The old man can get pretty alarming sometimes, but crying at a story is a little overkill. Before he can ask what’s wrong, Four's composure cracks.

Four is giggling. _Four_ is _giggling._

Wild stares at him for a long moment, then sighs. At least he’s not freaking out anymore—Wild will take uncharacteristic laughter over uncharacteristic stress any day. “What’s so funny, huh?”

“Sorry, sorry. Just. Fierce? Ferocity? Legend really _is_ an Autumn, isn’t he?”

“Heck yeah he is! Now come on, let’s get started. Unless you’ve changed your mind?”

Four steps out of his hold and Wild lets him go, though the clingy part of his heart wants to clutch his brother close. He shoves the thought away with a practiced argument—they both need to be able to move freely to cook, after all.

“No, I haven’t,” Four says, glancing at Wild with a shy smile. “What are we making?”

Wild’s answering grin is just a bit more feral—one might even go so far as to say _wild._ “As per a top-secret request, today’s ingredients are salted salmon and rice, so I figured I’d pull out my friend Pruce’s recipe and make rice balls. The ones we’ll make for lunch will be pretty standard, but it’s up to you to decide what filling you’re going to make for your Offering, so why don’t you work on that? My cookbooks are on the table, and don’t forget to check that we have all the necessary ingredients.”

It’s surprising that Time requested two meals in a row, but hey, if the man is finally making choices Wild isn’t going to complain. As Wild washes the rice and sets it aside to soak, Four takes a seat at the table and buries himself in Wild’s cookbooks, mumbling to himself and marking things down on Wild’s ever-present kitchen notepad.

By the time Wild starts cooking the salmon (skin-side down in a dry non-stick pan, covered, at medium heat), Four’s muttering has picked up in both volume and pace; by the time the rice finishes soaking, it’s mostly tapered off. Four ducks under his elbow while he’s setting up his workstation for when the rice is done, almost completely disappearing into the pantry as he checks for ingredients.

Somewhere in the background, the fridge door opens, then closes again a minute later. Four goes back to the table and sits down again, but Wild hears his recipe box click open—Four must have settled on something, then, if he’s ready to get out a recipe card.

Wild hums to himself while he waits, turning the salmon in the pan every few minutes. He gets through three songs before Four tugs on his sleeve, holding out a recipe card. Flashing his brother a grin, he takes the card and looks it over.

 _Teriyaki-Pineapple Beef Rice Balls,_ it says on the top in Four's neat print. An interesting combination, but all flavors that go well together. His only real concern is that the filling might get too moist and make the finished rice balls fall apart. The ingredients list is reasonable—one and a half cups of rice, cooked; one quarter of a pound of ground beef; one eighth of a cup of crushed pineapple; and one quarter of a cup of teriyaki sauce.

The instructions look good as well: the language is clear and precise, and Wild can't spot any major flaws. It's simple—it basically boils down to 'cook the beef, pan-fry the pineapple, mix both ingredients with the teriyaki sauce, and use it to fill rice balls'—but simple isn't necessarily a bad thing. And Four has specifically accounted for the liquids issue, as well. The recipe calls for the beef and pineapple to be drained and patted dry after cooking, and the teriyaki sauce it calls for is a thick one. This filling shouldn't lead to any sort of leakage.

He recognizes a lot of the steps, of course, since each component came from his own cookbooks, but most importantly he recognizes that this combination of flavors, ingredients, preparation, and presentation isn’t in his cookbooks, or any other recipe collection he’s aware of. It’s uniquely Four’s, putting some of his favorite flavors into a new format—a wonderful Offering to the Spirit of Creativity. Wild initials the card and hands it back to Four.

For a moment, Four just stares at the card in his hand. When he looks back up at Wild, it’s all in a rush, so fast his hair hits him in the face. “You really think it sounds good?”

“Come on, would I lie to you about something like this? Go get your ingredients, it’s time to get started.”

Four nods once, sharp and solemn again, but there’s a quiet joy in his eyes as he turns to obey.

The kitchen is quiet, save for the faucet running as Wild stands at the sink, rinsing potatoes. It’s not quite dark out yet, but dusk approaches swiftly. Honestly, it’s peaceful—relaxing. Wild knows this kitchen inside and out, it’s his territory more than anywhere else, and there’s a measure of security that comes with that.

The first indication that someone else is in Wild’s kitchen is a light tug on his ponytail—too familiar to be alarming. He rolls his eyes, not pausing in his task. “What do you want, Wars?”

His brother scoffs, but there’s a warmth to it beneath the facade of offense. “With that sort of welcome, you’d think you don’t _want_ me to cook with you.”

Wait. What? “You haven’t even been home a full day yet, are you sure you want to—”

“Wild, Wild, Wild,” Wars drawls, slinging an arm around his shoulder. “Just because I’m on holiday doesn’t mean I can’t cook with my baby brother. What are we making?”

Wild glares, but there’s no real heat in it—he’s not actually upset, but this is the next step of the dance they’ve perfected over the past nine years. Wars pokes at the gap in their ages, and Wild pokes back. “Cottage Pie, unless you’ve forgotten how in your _advanced age.”_

Wars laughs and nudges him to the side. “Tag ya,” he says, and takes over rinsing potatoes without hesitation.

… That’s the only step he remembers, isn’t it? Wash, cube, and boil potatoes. Well, at least he remembers that much.

Since Wars is handing the mashed potatoes, Wild starts slicing onions and carrots, putting each type of vegetable into a separate bowl. By the time he starts cubing the beef—technically the recipe calls for ground beef, but Wild has always thought small cubes make for better taste _and_ texture—Wars has joined him at the table to chop the potatoes.

They work in silence for a few minutes, then Wars clears his throat. He doesn’t speak, though.

Wild glances over, and finds that he’s being observed. “Need something?” he prompts. If Wars doesn’t want to answer, it’s easy enough to say no, or make some trivial comment, but if he _does_ Wild will do his best to provide an opportunity.

Wars hesitates, then looks back down at his cutting board. When he speaks, his voice is soft. Quiet. Not a whisper, but not far from it. “Does the old man seem… off, to you?”

Oh. It’s gonna be _this_ conversation. Wild is honestly kind of surprised it hasn’t come up sooner.

“Yeah, I see it. We all do, I think,” he replies, just as quiet. “He’s been tenser than the city hall staff for a month, but it only really got bad this morning. I mean, you saw how he was yesterday—stressed, but not… not isolating himself, like today.”

Wars sighs. “I wish I could say that wasn’t what I expected. Do you have any idea why? Has anything changed?”

And that’s the question, isn’t it. Why. Why does Time do anything, really? The only one who understands at all is—oh. “Maybe because Ma’s not here? He didn’t get _bad_ until she left, but who knows for sure? I don’t know how his mind works, and it’s not like he’ll tell us anything. And that doesn’t explain why he’s been stressed for so _long,_ she only left yesterday.”

“Could they be fighting?”

Something in Wild’s chest curls up tight at the thought, coiling and constricting around his lungs, and he shoves it away. “I don’t think so. She’s just visiting the ranch, nothing unusual there. And Time and Twi talked to her earlier—you _know_ Twi would be making his Worried Face if they’d been arguing.”

Wars looks like he wants to ask another question, but Wild interrupts with a heavy sigh. “The why is really his business, isn’t it? If he wants us to know, he’ll tell us. I just wish he’d _do something_ about whatever’s bothering him.”

That’s what hurts the most, at least from Wild’s perspective. Whatever is bothering Time, he’s just _taking it._ He’s suffering without making a single move to solve the problem, like he thinks he’s some sort of martyr. Wild almost hates him for it—but only almost, because he could never hate the old man. Not for real.

“Fair enough,” Wars says, and lets the subject drop. The conversation lapses for a few minutes, but eventually he speaks up again. “Have you seen that storm warning?”

Wild smiles, recognizing the question for the peace offering it’s intended to be. Wars can always see when a topic is getting to be too much for him, and it never fails to warm his heart. “Yeah, I saw. Looks like it’s set to be a nasty one, if it doesn’t change course—it’s a good thing you came home when you did, huh?”

Wars laughs, and jokes that no amount of weather can defeat him; Wild shakes his head and ignores him, getting up to wash his hands. As he’s drying his hands, a sound from the ground floor catches his attention. Music. An ocarina—Farore knows he’s familiar with the sound, four people in the house play.

It’s coming from Time’s office.

Wars opens his mouth to speak, but Wild hushes him, closing his eyes and listening to the sound. The notes are familiar, like he’s heard them before, but he can’t place them. The song comes to an end, and after a moment of silence it starts again.

Wild scrambles for his pen and notepad, scrawling down the notes on a hastily-drawn staff before he forgets. It’s sloppy enough to make him cringe, waiting for a scolding that never comes, but still perfectly legible.

Looking at it written down is more familiar than hearing it. The muscle memory of _writing it_ is more familiar than hearing it.

Three-four time, g-clef (a guess based on the notes, initially, but Time had confirmed it later), four measures. B4, quarter; A4, quarter; F4, quarter. Repeat. B4, quarter; A4, quarter; E4, eighth; D4, eighth. E4, half, dotted.

It’s _that_ song. The auditory memory has faded, but he remembers a night spent writing it out over and over again, when he couldn’t sleep for the terror clawing at his chest and Time wasn’t awake to comfort him.

“Wild, are you alright?” Wars asks, now that Wild has stopped waving for him to keep quiet. “Do you know that song?”

Wild looks up from the paper. Curiosity is the most prevalent expression on Wars’ face, but there’s concern there too, half-buried. Most people wouldn’t be able to see it, but Wild knows his brother.

“Yeah, I used to write it out when I got upset—it made me feel safe. And…” He trails off, thoughts turning to the past—to a dark, tiled room and a narrow bed and a short row of plastic chairs with a bedraggled blond slumped over in the nearest one.

Pain, as he’d forced himself to sit up—he’d ignored it. A voice that wouldn’t obey him, and something in the back of his mind had whispered _that’s nothing new._ A gentle stirring in the cool air, accompanied by the hum of a fan. Sitting statue-still in an uncomfortable bed that was far too big for him, for what felt like eternity, staring at the stranger in the chair.

As if the man had felt his gaze, he’d stirred and sat up. The exhausted, relieved smile that lit the man’s face at the sight of him had been almost frightening.

_Wild, you’re awake! How’s your head?_

The way the joyful light in the man’s eyes had dimmed with each moment he hadn’t responded _had_ been frightening.

_Wild?_

It had burned like swallowing hot coals when he’d forced himself to speak, but watching that confusion grow had been worse. _Who’re you?_

That unfamiliar-familiar face had crumpled, then smoothed out again. When the man had looked back at him, all emotion had been wiped away, leaving behind only a generic kindness. _You must be confused, if you don’t recognize me. Probably scared, too, and hurting. Am I right?_

He’d nodded, just a tiny bit, and the man hadn’t quite managed to conceal the pain it caused.

_I won’t make you lie back down if you don’t want to, but how about I play you a song? It’s one of my favorites, and a lot of my friends say it makes them feel better. Maybe it can help you, too._

“And?” Wars prompts, stirring Wild from his thoughts.

“The old man played it for me once. The night I woke up. It’s fuzzy, so I don’t remember everything, but I know it was this one.” Wild doesn’t usually talk about his earliest days—he can count the occurrences on one hand—but this time it’s actually relevant, not just idle curiosity.

For a moment, Wars’ expression turns solemn. Then he pastes on an easy grin and tugs on Wild’s ponytail again. Wild narrows his eyes, but the corners of his lips twitch up into a smile that betrays the affection in his heart. Wars’ smile, in turn, becomes a little more genuine.

“It’s a nice song, even if it’s simple. I wonder what it’s called.”

“Well, keep wondering while we finish dinner. You’re the one who volunteered, no backing out now,” Wild says.

Wars sighs like it’s a terrible inconvenience, though his smile never falters, and the pair get back to work. All the while, that song rings out again and again from the old man’s office, barely stopping before it starts again.

It’s quiet before the day starts, still before everyone is up and moving, peaceful before responsibilities claim his time. It’s just relaxing, before the sun rises. (He intends to take advantage of it today, because who knows what it’ll be like tomorrow, what with the storm.) Today’s breakfast is waffles—he doesn’t technically _need_ help for that, but he’ll never turn down an opportunity to spend time with Twilight.

Cooking with Twi is fun, in a way no-one else quite matches. He’s the second-most competent cook in the house, though there’s a significant gap between them, and he’s very good at following Wild’s lead. When they cook together, they don’t have to talk about cooking—so there’s plenty of time for talking about other things.

“I mean it, Cub, if you buy Legend one more rabbit toy he _will_ hide all your spices. He doesn’t make idle threats.”

Even if they aren’t always things Wild wants to hear. Still, Twi’s right, and he’s not above admitting it.

“Alright, fine, I’ll lay off the toys,” he agrees. “But if a rabbit _hutch_ happens to show up—”

_“Wild, no.”_

Ah, Serious Voice, time to stop. Twi is unfairly good at channeling Ma’s no-nonsense tone. He laughs, waving away Twi’s words. “Okay, okay, I promise. I’m just teasing. Hey, handle the iron for a minute? I’m gonna make some whipped cream.”

It’s something he’s done a million times before, so often it’s practically a ritual. Measure out the heavy whipping cream (three cups), the powdered sugar (six tablespoons), and the vanilla extract (one and a half teaspoons) into a chilled mixing bowl. Then it’s just whisk, whisk, whisk until it’s got the right texture—it usually takes about fifteen minutes to mix this much by hand.

Three minutes in, his phone chimes from across the room. Some sort of notification. “Will you check that for me? Just in case it’s something important.”

“What am I, your servant?” Twi asks, a teasing lilt to his voice, even as he moves to pick up Wild’s phone.

“No, you’re my minion, get it right, Twi,” he replies. Twi doesn’t answer, only hums noncommittally, and Wild shrugs and turns his attention back to his whisking.

A minute later, he smells smoke and burning waffles. He turns around, a scolding remark on the tip of his tongue, only to find Twi staring down at Wild’s phone in pale-faced horror.

Since Twi isn’t moving, Wild unplugs the waffle iron and removes the burnt waffle. He only turns to Twi when he is once again the only fire hazard in his kitchen. “Hey, you alright? What sort of notification bothered you this much?”

Twi still doesn’t respond, or even look up. Wild sighs, then plucks his phone from his unresponsive brother’s hand. Displayed on the screen is an email, from an address Wild doesn’t recognize.

> TO: wildfire@tti.net  
> FROM: storytime@tti.net  
> SUBJECT: the innocence of children
> 
> once upon a time there was a little boy from a cursed forest. he dealt in death before his age reached two digits, and he left his home at the urging of his patron to avert a great disaster. but the one to whom he was led was blind, and the one who could see was mute, and there was little he could do but try to obey, to meet the blind one’s demands and keep the mute one from all harm.
> 
> but little boys are not good soldiers. little boys are weak and frail. and he failed.
> 
> and the blind one sent him away with the strong shadow, so she could teach him to be strong too, the way he needed to be, the way the world of mortals and monsters needed him to be. but the blind one was blind to strength, as well, and at his direction the boy was made not strong but hard.
> 
> and hard things are brittle.
> 
> the brittle boy grew and cast off the chains of childhood. through seven years of pain and blood and shadow, he drew allies to his side and became a mighty power unto himself, though no less brittle for it. he gave the mute one back her voice, and cast the blind one away because he would not see. and when danger lit his doorstep again, he took what was precious to him and fled under cover of darkness.
> 
> he took the dark into himself on his journey, and when it came to an end that dark drew many eyes to him. he used it and cultivated it, tormented himself and others with it, twisted and tortured and shattered them. and when he did not need it anymore, when he had no more use for it, he took that which had served him so well and faithfully and cast it away and forsook it.
> 
> he fears the dark now. it makes him stumble. makes him falter. he is too brittle for shifting shadows and the inky night. the malleable alone navigate its paths without harm, and he has not been malleable since his firing. he would not have to fear the dark if he had not clawed his way back to the light. he would not have to safeguard his heart if he had not taken it back. and in reclaiming his heart and name he has also reclaimed his sins.
> 
> the brittle boy has no innocence anymore.
> 
> the brittle boy is guilty and he knows it.
> 
> and i will come to shatter his brittle heart.

Wild sighs and shakes his head. _“Farore,_ Twi, if a little creepypasta like this upsets you so much, I’m glad it wasn’t one of those ‘Dead Hand’ photo manipulations.”

Twi doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t smile. Doesn’t even react. Just keeps staring ahead.

“Twi? Twi, it’s just a creepypasta, seriously. Not even a good one. It might be a little unsettling, I know you don’t read as many of these things as I do, but it’s not real. It’s all over the internet—look, the email is probably from one of my forums, it’s nothing to get worked up over.”

He doesn’t actually get emails from any of the forums he frequents, regardless of the subject matter, but what’s a little white lie if it gets Twi to start breathing again?

Twi finally looks up at him. His eyes are wide, his face still pale. His lips part, but he doesn’t speak; his mouth moves like he’s trying to form words, but no sound escapes. After a moment, he just shakes his head.

“It’s not,” he finally manages to say, almost a full minute later. “It’s not, Wild, I know that story, it’s not fake. It’s not a ghost story, it’s a _threat.”_

Wild’s day has been thoroughly turned on its ear, and it’s not even seven thirty yet. Of all the responses he’d expected, that wasn’t one of them. (Maybe he shouldn’t have lied about the email, but something tells him now isn’t the time for backtracking.)

“Okay, calm down. What do you mean, it’s a threat? It’s—you’re saying it’s a true story? Whose—” he cuts himself off. “Don’t answer that, that’s private information, I shouldn’t have asked. But it’s about someone you know?”

Twi nods. “It’s an important story, Wild—and not one many people know. Only… three people total, I think, at least who know all of it. There are more who know bits and pieces, but this…”

He trails off, holding out his hand for the phone. Wild hands it over, expecting Twi to read the email again, and cries out when he deletes it instead. Twi hands his phone back, waving away his protests. When he looks up, his eyes are stern and no laughter lines his face.

“Tell no-one.”

“No, hold on, you said this was a threat, now you want me to just ignore it? And why did you delete it?”

“I’ll tell the old man about it. You leave it be. This isn’t a matter for children.”

Wild sputters. “You—I cannot believe you just pulled the child card on me, Twilight—”

_“Cub!”_

Wild falls silent instantly.

“Forget you ever read this. Tell no-one what you’ve seen. _Promise me.”_

It’s been a long, long time since he’s seen Twi this distraught.

“... I promise.” 

Wild is halfway up the stairs from the bedroom hall to the upper floor, on his way to start lunch, when he hears a voice he doesn’t recognize. _Ugh,_ if someone brought a stranger into the house, the old man is going to throw a _fit—_

He adds ‘ask the guest to leave’ and ‘chastise whichever brother thought this was a good idea when Time is already so worked up’ to his mental checklist. He doesn’t want to eavesdrop, but he can’t help hearing part of the conversation as he approaches.

“Your face is cold these days—your eyes are haunted. What _happened_ to you since last we met, Link?”

That doesn’t sound like any of Wind’s classmates, or Wars’ friends, or anyone else he knows. Her accent is foreign, but not entirely unfamiliar—it reminds him of the accent Time used to have, but much stronger, and sharper somehow. Is she from his homeland?

And what she’s saying… this past day and a half has been terrible, the last month has been tense, but the old man has _always_ been somewhat closed-off. There have always been shadows lining his face. How long have these two known each other?

He doesn’t need to break up the conversation anymore, but he does still need to get to the kitchen, and he’d like to meet Time’s friend if he can.

“I go by Time, these days. There are nine Links here—it gets confusing without nicknames.”

“Nine?” she asks, and while her tone is surprised Wild is pleased to find it free of judgement. “I could have sworn last I saw you there were only two of you—”

Time clears his throat. “Yes, well. Times change, don’t they?”

“... Yes, I suppose they do.”

Wild reaches the top of the stairs and leans through the living room doorway. Time raises an eyebrow, Wild pouts, and the old man sighs and nods. _Victory!_ He steps the rest of the way into the room and approaches the woman.

“Hey there! I’m Link Yasoni, but most people call me Wild,” he says, holding out a hand. “You know, I was starting to think Time didn’t _have_ any friends, it’s nice to be proven wrong.”

The woman looks Wild over with a guarded smile, tucks a lock of honey-blonde hair behind her ear, and shakes his hand. Her grip is firm—not quite enough to be a threat, but she definitely thinks he’s underestimating her. “Call me Zee.”

“Nice to meet you, Zee. Can I get you anything to drink? I’m about to start lunch, if you’re joining us, but there’s always time for good manners.”

Zee falters, and Time steps up to cover for her. Odd. Wild hasn’t seen him so in sync with anyone but Ma. “She drinks sparkling juice, Wild, thank you. Lull, will you be joining us for lunch?”

Wild steps into the kitchen to retrieve the requested juice. There’s a case in the bottom of the pantry—there always is, even though he’s never seen anyone drink it, and it’s always replaced when the expiration date passes. Has the old man been keeping it stocked just in case this woman visited?

At the table, Wind is on his laptop, scrolling through a website Wild doesn’t recognize. _Perfect._ That’s his lunch minion acquired. Wind looks up and groans, knowing he’s just been minionized, but doesn’t actually complain.

Wild grabs a bottle of juice—red grape, he notices, and wonders if she actually prefers it or is just trying to avoid alcohol—and a bottle opener—any friend of Time’s is likely to be as paranoid as he is, best to let her open it herself—and heads back out to the living room. “Here you are, Zee; enjoy your drink.”

He shoots the old man an expectant glance—is she or is she not joining them for lunch? Time nods quickly; they will be entertaining a guest over the midday meal. 

“Well, I have to get to the kitchen. It’s nice to meet you, Zee, I hope you enjoy your visit,” he says with a genuine smile. Whether or not Time was the one to reach out to her, maybe an old friend can get through to him where Wild can’t.

“Is he—” Zee murmurs as he leaves.

Time hushes her mid-sentence. “Don’t ask.”

It stings a little, but Wild tries to put it out of his mind. It’s hardly the rudest way someone has asked about his scars, and at least she treats him kindly. He turns his thoughts deliberately to lunch—cooking is his strength, the kitchen is his domain and he knows where he stands in it.

Chicken, rice, and teriyaki sauce, with a side of roasted broccoli and soft-boiled eggs. Easy enough, especially with a minion. He sets Wind to cubing chicken while he washes the rice and sets it to soak, starts the eggs boiling, and tosses the broccoli with oil, soy sauce, and garlic before putting it in the oven.

He starts the rice cooking, then turns his attention to the sauce. Two thirds of a cup of soy sauce, a cup of orange juice, a tablespoon of minced garlic, a teaspoon of ground ginger, and a quarter cup of brown sugar all go in a pot and get whisked together. As he starts putting together a cornstarch slurry to thicken it, his phone rings.

He can’t help but grin once he sees who’s calling. “Hey, Ma!”

_“It’s good to hear your voice again, Wild, I missed you!”_

He laughs. “You’ve only been gone for two days! How can you miss me already?”

She sniffs imperiously. _“Don’t you doubt me, Wild Child, I can miss you as fast as I’d like.”_

“Okay, okay, I believe you. Did you need something?”

She hesitates—a significant observation, since Wild has never known Ma to hesitate about anything. _“You’re cooking, aren’t you? It’s about that time.”_

“Yeah, I am. Wind was helping me—” over at the table, Wind perks up at the sound of his name, and gets up to wash his hands “—but I can manage on my own if you want to talk to him.”

Her next breath sounds almost relieved. _“That’d be lovely, sweetheart. I’ll talk to you later, okay?”_

“Okay, later Ma, love you,” he says. “Wind, phone—and you’re free to go, get out of my kitchen.”

He hands over the phone to Wind, who’s practically bouncing in place at his elbow, and collects the chicken Wind had been chopping. Thankfully he had cubed it all before Ma called, so Wild doesn’t have to juggle another task.

A cheerful “Hoy, Momma!” echoes back through the kitchen as Wind leaves, and Wild shakes his head with a smile.

At least one of them is happy.

As he starts the chicken cooking and finishes up the sauce, he can’t help but wonder if it means anything that Ma had known he was cooking when she called, and that she accepted being handed off to someone else so happily.

He can’t help but wonder if she’d wanted to talk to him at all.

When Wild steps into the kitchen to finish dinner, shortly after sunset, Legend is seated at the table, staring out the window at the street far below. He flicks on the light—why does Legend insist on sitting in the dark like some sort of demented bat?—and stops by the stove to stir the pot of chicken broth that’s been simmering all afternoon. “It’s a little soon for storm-watching, isn’t it, Vet? Not to mention it’s too dark outside. You’d have better luck tomorrow afternoon.”

He ignores Legend’s scowl with practiced ease, though the clack of his coffee mug hitting the table is harder to dismiss. Those angry eyes soften as he flinches.

“I’m not looking for storms,” Legend says, voice gentle with an unspoken apology.

“What _are_ you looking for, then?” Wild asks, retrieving the pasta dough he made earlier from the fridge. He joins Legend at the table, knocking his shoulder against his brother’s as he sits, an equally silent _you’re forgiven._

He starts rolling out the dough, letting Legend sit quietly and decide whether or not to answer. It’s almost ten minutes before his brother speaks again.

“People.”

Wild freezes in the middle of a roll, looking over at Legend from the corner of his eye. That is, quite possibly, the shortest terrifying sentence he’s heard in his life. Still, he tries to play it off with a joke. “Come on, there are people everywhere, even this late—we’re in the heart of the city. If you’re cataloging everyone who walks down the street, you’ll be here all night _and_ all morning.”

Legend doesn’t react. He’s not exactly prone to bright laughter or broad grins, but his lips don’t so much as twitch. He just keeps staring out the window, both hands wrapped around his mug as he watches the street.

“Specific people, not just random passers-by. People who shouldn’t be here.”

Wild starts rolling the dough again, trying not to let the atmosphere fall more than it already has. “We’re thirty feet up and as far again back, not to mention it’s dark out. How much do you really think you’re going to be able to tell, looking from here?”

Wild’s efforts are in vain. Legend slumps over the table, exhaustion written in the curve of his back and the angle of his shoulders, and keeps staring out the window.

“They’re memorable enough,” Legend says, his words distorted because his cheek is pressed into the table, and lets go of his mug with one hand to toy with pink bangs for a moment. “Easy to identify, even from here. Bright red hoodies don’t make for stealthy people.”

Something about that strikes Wild as significant, and his hands tremble enough that he mis-rolls a section of the dough, pressing too hard and flattening it too much. Red hoodies… he doesn’t know why, but they feel almost familiar. Just that description conjures a full image in his mind: bright red hoodie, smooth white mask, black pants and boots and gloves.

He shakes it away.

“How many have you seen, Vet?” He can’t keep the unease from his voice now, even though his hands are steady once again.

Legend hears it and turns his head, switching to rest his other cheek on the table, and looks up at Wild. “We’re going to be fine, Champ. That’s a fact. They’re not going to lay a single finger on you, or any of us.”

 _Champ._ It’s been a long time since he’s heard that name. Champion, sure, he hears that every time he calls his brother Vet or Veteran, but Champ? It’s been six years. He must look terrible, if Legend thinks he needs that much reassurance.

“I’m not scared of them,” he says, but it’s a lie. He doesn’t know who they are, but something in his heart shies away from so much as the thought of them. Has he… has he met them before? He squashes that thought—it’s not important right now. “How many?”

Legend closes his eyes, and for a long moment he doesn’t speak. If not for the tension in his shoulders, and his chronic insomnia, Wild would almost think he’s asleep. Then, without opening his eyes, he begins to speak. “Yesterday morning, one. Afternoon, three. Evening, two. This morning, five. Afternoon, seven. Three this evening, though none since you came in. They walk to the corner of Plaza Street and then they just stop and stare. They’re not even trying to be subtle—either they’re idiots, or they don’t need to be.”

Now it’s Wild’s turn to close his eyes. He tries not to let the growing fear take root. Instead, he focuses on his breathing, timing it in his head until it steadies, and tries to catalogue every sound he hears: footsteps and creaking floorboards in the living room, faint music from the bedroom hall, raucous laughter from the entry room, the gentle rain that heralds tomorrow’s storm _tap-tap-tapping_ on the window, Legend’s steady breathing.

“There are people in blue hoodies, too. They’re here in shifts, they swap out every four hours. They don’t watch the house—they watch the street. And they know whoever lives in the lower house on the stair-side corner of Plaza and South; every time one of them is replaced they go in that house, but I never see them leave.”

Wars bursts into laughter across the hall, the tapping on the window grows louder, Wild’s chair creaks as he shifts in place.

“The scientist?” Wild asks, opening his eyes again and giving the dough a final roll. “The man is—”

Wild cuts himself off, a realization coming to light in the back of his mind, because the tapping on the window is even louder now, despite the rain still being gentle.

“Wild? Hey, Champ, still in there?”

Legend is sitting completely upright now, staring at him, one hand so tight around his mug it might actually crack. But Wild doesn’t answer him. _Can’t_ answer him.

The tapping is too regular to be rain.

Slowly, he lifts his head and looks out the big kitchen window.

That smooth white mask he'd pictured earlier peers back at him, bulky red hoodie hiding all other features. One black-gloved hand rests against the glass, and Wild is so close he could almost reach out and put his hand right over it. As he watches, the chin raises, the head tilts to the side. Then that hand lifts off the glass and touches back down. Tap-tap-tap.

Wild grabs Legend’s arm and throws himself back, away from the window, away from _that mask,_ ignoring his brother’s startled cry. All he can do is put as much distance as he can between it and them. The mug hits the floor with a clatter, and cold coffee spills all over the wood.

“Old Man!” Wild yells. There are no thoughts in his mind—all he knows is that he needs him here _now._ He’ll know what to do. “Time!”

Three things happen at once:

Legend twists out of his grip, demanding to know why he did that and what’s upset him so much, and turns to the window. As he processes the sight, the irritable complaints devolve into disjointed swearing.

Downstairs, Time’s office door slams open, then shut, and heavy footsteps race across the room and up the stairs. Time shouts his name, demands to know what’s happening, but Wild cannot answer.

The person outside the window, crouching on the two-foot ledge of brick as if it’s not thirty feet off the ground with nothing but a sheer drop beyond, shakes their head like they’re disappointed. The hand that isn’t on the glass raises to their face, one finger resting on the mask where it covers their mouth, as if they’re telling him to keep quiet. Then they stand up straight, wave a jaunty wave, and take a single step back, off of the ledge.

Time storms into the kitchen only moments later, scanning the room for a threat. All there is to see is two frightened boys on the floor, a pair of toppled chairs, and a puddle of spilled coffee.

“Boys?” he asks, kneeling next to them, and something in his posture shifts from aggressive to defensive. He looks more like himself than he has since Monday. “What happened? Wild, why did you yell?”

When Wild manages to get his breathing back under control, he says, “there was someone outside the window.”

It’s a ludicrous statement. Anyone would be in the right to doubt such a claim—they’re _thirty feet up,_ for Farore’s sake! But Time doesn’t question, doesn’t hesitate. He only crosses to the window and peers outside, looking for any sign of the person.

Wild almost feels like he’s seven years old again, frightened and alone, when his only truth was _Time will protect me._

“Whoever it was, they’re long gone or well-hidden. Cover the windows and try not to think about it—I’ll look again in the morning, when there’s enough light to see. Do you want Twilight to finish cooking tonight?”

Wild shakes his head, carefully climbing back to his feet. He’ll be feeling the impact for a few days, but there isn’t any significant damage. “No, no.” There’s no need to bother Twi, and the routine of cooking will help him calm down more than anything else. “Just—stay with me?”

Time’s expression softens, and he draws the curtains and takes a seat at the table. Legend joins him there, after cleaning up the spilled coffee, carrying a new mug by the handle with three fingers. With both of them there, both of them watching out for him, Wild’s hands barely shake as he finishes preparing dinner.

Morning comes around as it always does, and Wild is on his way to the kitchen before dawn, storm or no storm. He’s cooking alone today, because Thursday is Hyrule’s assigned breakfast day, and just no. Wild hasn’t made the mistake of letting Hyrule in the kitchen before sunrise in _years._ No, this is his morning to himself—his morning where he doesn’t have to account for any unknown variables in his kitchen.

His plans change the moment he steps into his kitchen, because there’s a small child standing by the table. She’s dressed in white, bright red hair falling just past her shoulders, but the most significant feature is her mask.

It’s a mask he knows by heart, a mask he could never imagine not recognizing. A snarling red-and-silver fish with spiked fins and sturdy horns and a mouthful of sharp teeth. She stares back at him in silence while he drags himself out of his shock.

As soon as he can think again, he drops to one knee and bows so low his arms, crossed in front of his chest, touch his leg. “Lady Autumn honors Her student.”

She approaches him—Her light footsteps stop right in front of him. Small hands catch his shoulders and pull him out of his bow, though She is too short to make him stand.

 _“Get up, Little Brother,”_ his patron commands, and he hurries to obey. _“Something terrible is happening, and you have a chance to stop it. Didn’t you say you would?”_

“Lady Autumn? I don’t understand—”

 _“Reach out, and shine a lamp into the dark. Illuminate the night. Reignite a dying star._ **_Help him.”_ **

Wild stumbles back and catches himself on the counter. His mind is a million miles away, back in a sea of misty gray. His dream… it was real? The details are still fuzzy, but those words shake him to his core.

Gyorg holds out a slim stack of papers, but Wild can’t force his shaky hands to release the edge of the counter. When he doesn’t take them, She shakes them at him. _“Mother wants you to have these. Take them, Little Brother, and read them carefully.”_

Still shaken, he takes the paper. Between one heartbeat and the next, his patron vanishes.

For a long moment, Wild just stares at the space his Lady used to occupy. Then he shakes his head and sets the papers on the counter—he still needs to make breakfast. Something that will give him time to sit and read, something still extravagant enough for a Thursday morning so no-one worries.

… cinnamon rolls. Those take a while to rise and a while to bake, and the act of making them is almost muscle memory by now. If he makes fancy ones from scratch, no-one can say he’s slacking off.

He barely pays attention as he puts together a simple yeast dough and prepares the filling—apple pecan chai, a mix he’s wanted to try in cinnamon rolls for a while but is still easy enough to make on autopilot—his mind still on the papers. Look, it’s not every day he’s hand-delivered mysterious documents by his patron, okay?

He can’t wash his hands fast enough after he sets the dough aside to rise.

The paper is flimsy beneath his fingers, smooth except for the raised letters. He reads the first line, stops, and reads it again.

> _I, Link Shorima, residing at 2000 Moonfall Lane, Clock Town, Termina, declare this to be my Will, and I revoke any and all wills and codicils I previously made._

This is Time’s will.

This is _Time’s will._

He doesn’t want to read it. Time deserves better than that. But. His patron commanded him to. Duty wars with duty, but in the end the threat of danger sways him. His dream has context now, and that context has teeth. Let Time hate him for invading his privacy—at least Time will _be here_ to hate him.

He keeps reading.

> _I give all my tangible personal property, except those items listed in Article III, and all policies and proceeds of insurance covering such property, to my wife, Malon. If she does not survive me, I give that property to those of my wards—Link Godin, Link Hyrule, Link Kaza, Link Rashini, Link Salomida, Link Shodeler, Link Sulos, and Link Yasoni—who survive me, in equal shares…_

Wild leans back against the counter, closing his eyes against the sudden sting of tears, and presses a fist to his mouth. That word plays through his mind again and again. _Wards._ It’s not a legal term like _charge,_ not something listed on a record somewhere for someone to look up. Your wards are who you say they are. And to claim them like this, in a legal document like a will—Wild can hardly breathe for the bittersweet warmth in his chest.

He knows Time loves him. You don’t bring someone into your family without love. You don’t sit by a child’s hospital bed for a hundred hours straight out of duty. You don’t give an amnesiac your own cultural heritage to replace the one they lost and spend a month helping them craft a new name from charity. But this…

It’s like calling someone your child.

And Time may not be Terminian by birth, he may be an immigrant from across the sea, but he’s spent so long here he might as well be a native son. He navigates the culture and society like every child of the moon, he knows its ins and outs and subtle implications. He knew exactly what he was saying when he wrote this.

Wild just wishes it wasn’t a stolen secret.

He keeps reading.

The list of bequests is half a page long, with most of the items in question being specific journals or lockboxes. He’s not surprised to see himself and all of his brothers on the list, but after them—some of the names are enough to give him pause.

Zelda Hyrule. Impa of the Shadow. Saria of the Forest. Darunia of the Flame. Ruto of the Water. Nabooru of the Spirit.

The crown princess of a country across the sea, and every living member of her advisory council. Time knows them? Time knows them _all,_ well enough to name them in his will?

He shakes his head. He didn’t know anything about Time’s life before the old man came to Termina when he woke up this morning, and as far as he’s concerned, he still doesn’t. He doesn’t know what his Lady wants him to learn.

He keeps reading.

Nothing stands out, nothing feels relevant. It’s a fairly standard simple will, he thinks, then shakes his head. Why does he know that? But that isn’t important, not at the moment, so he keeps reading.

> _If my wife does not survive me and I leave minor descendants surviving me, I appoint as guardian of the person and property of my minor descendants my sister Impa Kahei. She shall have custody of my minor descendants, and shall serve without bond. If she does not qualify or for any reason ceases to serve as guardian, I appoint as successor guardian my sister Zelda Hyrule._

That answers a few of the questions he had earlier. The pieces begin to fall into place. Yesterday makes more sense. A blonde with a foreign accent and fine clothing, who asked to be called Zee, who was so friendly with Time. It’s so obvious in hindsight.

In two days, this house has hosted royalty and a minor goddess.

That was the last article, so Wild starts to put the will down again, but stops. _Read them carefully._ There’s still more information, isn’t there?

He sees the date, first.

> _I have signed this will this 13th day of February, 2015._

He stops. _Reality_ stops, the world stops turning, and Wild stops breathing. Why in Farore’s name did Time need to update his will _two days ago?_

 _Help him,_ he was told in his dream. _Help him,_ his Lady had commanded. The danger must be more severe than he thought, if Time felt he needed to update his will before it arrived.

He shakes his head and reads over the witness signatures, and immediately wishes he hadn’t. He closes his eyes and puts the will down on the counter, but those names are burned on the inside of his eyelids. Kafei Melak, Lulu Tormia, Aveil Itam. He knows those names. Any child of the moon knows those names.

Kafei Melak, the mayor’s son, though far more widely known for his work reforming and supporting children’ homes throughout the city. He is the city’s quick feet and firm foundation, the one who guides it forward, the one who marches towards the future. His wife stands beside him as his partner in this, but it was his work first, and his name that is attached to it.

Lulu Tormia, a Great Bay native who moved to Clock Town for work, now the best-known and most-beloved singer in the city, if not the country. The city’s smiling face and pretty voice, the one who comforts the wounded and speaks out against suffering, the one who shapes the present.

Aveil Itam, chief of the Great Bay Gerudo tribe and renowned warrior—her students are as legendary as they are few. The city’s strong arms and skilled hands, for all that she does not reside within its walls; the one who guards against complacency and preys on corruption, the one who preserves and destroys the past as needed.

Wild tries not to speculate about how Time knows these three, this trio that _is_ Clock Town so far as the general population is concerned. It’s not his place. Time deserves his privacy as much as anyone else, and the only way Wild wants to learn Time’s secrets is if Time chooses to tell him himself. But he can’t stop himself from thinking. He can’t un-know that the trio isn’t a trio, but a quartet, whose fourth member was never named because they didn’t want the attention. The city’s heart, the center of them all, the one who drew them together and drove them to action.

The timer goes off, the dough has risen, and Wild has to get back to work. He cannot shake what he has learned from his mind.

A storm is breaking this afternoon? No, there’s a storm in his head and his heart that has broken _now._

Thursday lunch prep is Wild and Hyrule’s bonding time. Not that Hyrule is allowed to help cook—no, Wild likes his kitchen intact. Okay, technically it’s Time’s kitchen, but they all know it’s really Wild’s. Anyway, it’s a tradition by now that Hyrule joins Wild in the kitchen at 12:00 noon sharp every Thursday. Wild prepares lunch, Hyrule sits at the table, and they talk.

Today is a bit of an exception, unfortunately.

Oh, Wild is still in the kitchen, preparing lunch. Hyrule is still at the table, watching him work. But they’re not talking.

Wild doesn’t think he could talk if he tried.

“What is this, Wind?”

Wild winces at that deceptively calm voice. He tries not to listen, but it doesn’t work. Anger catches his attention like nothing else, his ear tuned to it for reasons unknown. Time’s anger isn’t loud, but Wild can hear it anyway—he knows those subtle notes that say the old man is at the end of his rope.

This isn’t going to end well.

The counter is in line with the kitchen doorway. The kitchen doorway aligns with the living room doorway. Time and Wind are in the living room.

Wild is unsteady as he walks over to the doorway, like the ground is suddenly too far away, and he grabs the doorframe to keep his balance as he peers through.

Time is holding some sort of book with a purple cover. He holds it out like a weapon, and Wind stares at it for a moment before looking back at Time. “You know what it is, Old Man. Why don’t you ask the question you really want answered?”

The book wobbles as Time’s entire arm goes tense. His empty right hand trembles as well, but it’s a subtler motion. “What I really want to know? Fine. Why do you have it?”

Wind’s frown deepens. “No, that’s still a mask. I’ll tell you the truth, but only once you figure out what truth you actually want.”

“Just _answer the question,_ Wind!”

Wind startles so violently he loses his balance—he almost falls, but catches himself on an armchair at the last moment. Time doesn’t react at all, just watching the scene play out with cold, indifferent eyes. The house itself seems to be holding its breath, waiting for Wind’s response; it’s almost silent, the usual ambiance of a busy house muffled and distant.

Wind takes a deep breath, then looks up at Time with a serious expression.

That’s the exact moment Wild’s hope for a peaceful resolution curls up and dies.

“Please don’t yell at me, Time,” Wind says. Wild can hear his anger, too, bubbling under the surface like water about to come to a boil. He’s about to lose his temper, and there is no going back.

There’s a moment of silence that draws out into eternity. Then, Time speaks. “You went through my room, _through my wife’s journal,_ and you want me to not be upset? You’re many things, Link Godin, but I didn’t take you for a _fool.”_

The difference between Time’s height and Wind’s has never been so pronounced as in this moment, when the latter looms over the former.

“Upset? _Upset?!_ This isn’t _upset,_ this is—I didn’t ‘go through’ anything! She said I could read one specific entry and I didn’t look at anything else,” Wind protests. _“Ugh,_ why am I even trying to reason with you? You decided I was guilty before you even talked to me, didn’t you?”

Wind turns on his heel, turns to leave—turns towards the door, and sees Wild in the doorway. Wild can only stare back at him, helpless and frozen, and watch his eyes widen and his face turn pale. He opens his mouth, but he’s interrupted before he finds his voice.

 _“Don’t_ walk away from me. This conversation isn’t over.”

Wild is in the perfect position to watch the distress on Wind’s face turn back to anger, sudden and sharp like the flip of a switch. He doesn’t turn around, answering Time without looking at him. “You’ve changed, Old Man, and I don’t think it’s an improvement. You used to be _happy_ and _safe,_ but now? I don’t even _recognize_ you anymore!”

Time laughs, cold and brittle. Wild hasn’t heard that laugh in ten years—not in real life, anyway. It’s a constant feature in his nightmares, inextricably linked with _fire_ and _pain_ and _fear._ “Maybe I’ve changed—or maybe, you’ve just begun to see. _Grow up;_ denying reality is for children and fools.”

Wind finally spins back around, his jacket swirling with the motion.

“In case you’ve forgotten, I _am_ a child!” He laughs, once; the edges of the sound are crisp and cold. “But you’re not the first one to forget, are you? Or maybe you _are_ —in every way that matters, at least. Because right now, looking at you, do you know who I see? My blood father. I hope you’re proud, _Dad.”_

Wild swears he hears Time’s jaw creak from across the room. Maybe Wind can’t see how he trembles, but Wild can.

“Wanting you to respect my privacy does _not_ make me the same as _that man.”_

Wind doesn’t react, not right away. His head tilts a little to the left, and Wild can imagine with perfect clarity the way he would blink twice in rapid succession as he processes that statement. His shoulders slump, just for a moment, then straighten out, and Wild wants to close his eyes and cover his ears to avoid whatever comes next.

“You know what?” Wind begins, soft and almost peaceful. _“Fine._ If that’s all you have to say for yourself, if you can’t even see why I’m upset—I don’t need any more cold in my life. _Don’t_ speak to me until you figure out where you left your heart.”

Wind starts to turn away, and Wild wishes he had closed his eyes. _Farore,_ Wild wishes he’d been blinded in the fire, if it meant he didn’t have to see that tiny half step forward, the way Time’s arm lifts an inch before he stops himself, hand open as if to grab Wind.

Wind sees it too, and his little chuckle is more bitterness than breath. “I guess I was more right than I thought, huh?” he says to no-one in particular, then finishes his turn. He walks out of the living room and stops to hug Wild for a moment before descending the stairs to the bedroom hall. A minute later, a door opens and shuts, followed by the scrape of a lock turning.

There’s a long stretch of silence, then Time comes out as well. He walks past Wild without acknowledging him, and his footsteps—heavier, sharper, laced with the last remnants of anger—sound out like breaking glass as he makes his way down the stairs. His office door shuts, harder than usual, and then all is still.

Wild lets out a trembling breath.

Potatoes. He’s supposed to be chopping potatoes for lunch. He looks back at the counter—they’re all still in a pile, rinsed but not cut. He forces himself to let go of the doorframe, flexing his hand repeatedly and ignoring the sting as proper blood flow resumes. He forces his other hand to unclench as well, and something clatters on the floor.

Oh. He was still holding the knife, wasn’t he.

It takes three tries to pick it up, because his hands are trembling so violently, but eventually he does, and he goes back to the sink to clean it off. He loses his grip halfway through washing it, and the clang of the blade hitting the metal basin is enough to make him jump.

A hand settles on his arm, just below his elbow, and pulls gently to turn him around. Hyrule looks pale—is he alright? His mouth is moving, but no sound comes out.

Wait. That's not right. It's just that the ringing in Wild's ears is so loud he can't hear anything else.

Hyrule seems to realize Wild can't hear him, because the pull on his arm returns. He stumbles along as his little brother leads him to the table, bundling him into the back corner seat, and lets reality pause again when he disappears.

The touch of cool air startles him, but it’s a good surprise. When he turns his head (it shouldn’t be this hard to turn his head, he _needs_ to calm down), he sees that Hyrule has opened the window, just a little. The relief is almost indescribable, and he leans back against the wall to press closer to the glass.

He trembles as he sits in silence, pulse racing, thoughts spinning in an endless repetitive spiderweb-weave that falls to dust as fast as it forms, each line crumbling almost before it begins to exist.

A second chair bumps into his. Hyrule sits with him, somewhere between pressed against his side and draped over him like a giant cat. The combination of the wind and the warmth and the weight is the key that unlocks Wild’s panic—his composure shatters and he sobs.

He doesn’t know how long he cries, only that he cries until he has no more tears to shed and his breathing has settled into something resembling steady and his hands feel like his own. His head is full of static and he can only sort of feel his feet, but he squirms until Hyrule lets him up anyway. As he starts to walk away, Hyrule catches his wrist again.

When he looks back, his brother is smiling, soft and sad. “Everything is going to be okay, Wild,” he says.

“Don’t lie to me,” is the only response he can form.

Hyrule’s smile fades, but doesn’t completely disappear. He squeezes Wild’s wrist, gently, then lets him go. “I love you.”

 _That,_ Wild can accept as truth. _That,_ Wild can believe. He can’t force himself to respond in kind, so he ducks down and hugs his brother tight, willing him to understand the sentiment.

The way his smile brightens again says he does.

Wild walks away on unsteady feet and starts cooking again. Hyrule doesn’t object, and doesn’t suggest calling for a helper. Cooking is the best way Wild knows to ground himself, to depressurize, and Hyrule won’t interfere with that.

Lunch is more than a little late, and simpler than he’d originally planned, but no-one says a word.

Time doesn’t join them.

Two hours after lunch, when Time has had time to calm down, when Wild has worked himself into a fright and spun a thousand and one worst-case scenarios in his mind, Wild goes down to Time’s office. He tells himself he’s just asking if the old man is coming to dinner—he needs to know how much to make, after all, never mind that he could just make nine servings and pack the leftovers away if he doesn’t come up.

Really, he wants to make sure Time is alright. Anger… it messes with his head. Wild remembers that much. Anger let loose like it was earlier sticks around, and once he manages to shake it off guilt is never far behind. He knocks on the door, but doesn’t speak.

No response.

A minute later he knocks again, a little harder.

Still nothing.

He’s about to knock a third time when the door flings open, crashing into the wall, and Time stalks past him. The front door opens and the wind’s howl grows louder. For a moment, Wild can only stare, frozen into stillness. Then he closes the office door, only a moment before the front door slams shut, the wind quieting once more.

His brothers have crept out of the various rooms—some from the library, some from the gym, some from upstairs—and he meets seven different gazes as a grim desperation grows in his heart. No-one moves. No-one takes a step towards the door.

Right.

“Twilight! Tonight’s recipe is on the counter. Don’t make that face—it’s a simple one, you’ll be fine.” 

Twilight makes a quiet sound of protest, but Wild ignores it. He’s a big boy, he can handle cooking one meal. Leaving others unsupervised in the kitchen is usually a Mistake, but Twi is the least likely to cause chaos, accidentally or otherwise. The house will _probably_ still be intact when he gets back.

And Wild has a more important job right now. If Twi isn’t going to go after Time, well.

Wild is.

They may not always agree. They may have their old wounds, and habitual arguments, and jagged edges that don’t line up. But his old man is still his old man, and Wild loves him anyway, and _Three’s vows,_ he can’t leave the man alone when he’d stormed out into a storm with that look on his face. When he’d left his office door open. When everything about his posture said _this is retreat._

Wild hasn’t heard Time cry in months. Hasn’t heard him _properly_ cry in years. But that sound is ingrained in his mind forever, and he knows what he heard. Wind has others to comfort him; Time is alone. And Wild can’t let that stand.

He steps out into the storm, and it’s raining hard enough he’s drenched in moments. The wind howls, strong enough to tilt him sideways, nearly deafening as it seems to scream directly at him.

What’s a dramatic breakdown without rain in the dark, right?

“Old Man? Hey, where are you?”

No answer. Of course not. He can barely hear himself shout over the wind, and Time isn’t likely to answer even if he does hear it. This isn’t the _time_ for one of Time’s self-destructive stunts—he needs to find him _fast._

“Old Man?” he calls again, the sparks of hope dimming every moment. “Time? _Link,_ where are you?!”

He shouts himself hoarse, but there is no response.

The only sound is the wind and the rain.

The sparks of hope flicker and die, and Wild stumbles aimlessly along with the push of the wind. If Time isn’t even answering to his name—he always reacts to his name, even if it’s just a surprised glance when he hears a name so rarely spoken.

“Dad!”

Wild’s throat burns with the force of his shout.

The rain pours down impossibly harder.

He can’t have gone far! He’s had less than five minutes’ head start! He has to be somewhere nearby, but Wild just. Can’t. _Find_ him!

The artificial orange light of the streetlamp glimmers in the inky night, reflecting off of something. He almost ignores it, thinking it’s just more rain-wet ground, but no—it’s moving. It’s a little hand, waving from around a corner.

His breath catches. Is this—could this possibly be another of the Spirits?

He doesn’t know why the divine are taking such interest in his life, in _Time’s_ life, but it’s all he has, so he’s not going to argue. He bolts down the street and ducks around the corner, and catches a glimpse of his guide, already halfway down the block. It _is_ one of the Spirits, but he can’t tell which one, yet. He races to catch up, following the Emissary around corners and down streets.

_“Run, run, run! Hurry up, hurry up, the clock is ticking! Time is running out!”_

Wild almost jumps out of his skin at the desperate shout, barely audible over the downpour. The speaker isn’t his guide, but another child dressed in white, another Spirit. Odalwa—Time’s patron.

 _“Run!”_ He commands again, and Wild whips around to see the tips of his guide’s red hair disappear around the next corner.

His legs burn, his chest aches, but he manages to catch up.

He doesn’t know how much longer he can do this.

As he turns one final corner, he almost trips over his small guide, who has come to an abrupt halt. They look up at him, and he recognizes Goht’s mask in an instant. It’s Their season, Their festival—of course They would be the one to guide him.

 _“Too late,”_ They whisper, shoulders slumping in despair, and turn Their back on him.

Wild’s world shatters. “What do you mean, _too late?”_

_“Listen.”_

And Wild does. Beneath the rain, beneath the wind, beneath the fury of the storm, he hears a voice.

“It’s a fitting fate, isn’t it, Hero? A rat dies like a rat, alone in the dirt, left to lie in the alley like the rest of the garbage.” A sharp ring of metal on brick, a wordless cry in an unfamiliar voice. _“If you didn’t want to die like a rat, you shouldn’t have_ **_been_ ** _a rat!”_

The voice falls silent.

Wild takes a single step forward, but Goht grabs him. Those small, slim hands are deceptively strong. He’s almost forgotten his companion isn’t a mortal child.

 _“Too late,”_ They whisper again, holding him back. _“Time’s run out.”_

Before Wild can speak, the voice picks up again, softer this time. Almost friendly.

“Not that it would have saved you, of course. You had to die, after what you did to me, I would have found a way. But it didn’t have to be like this, now, did it? I could have snapped your neck, poisoned you, smothered you in your sleep… it could have been peaceful. Painless.”

The rain is fast and heavy, forming a miniature river in the slanted alley. Wild looks down at the water rushing past his feet—there is brown, dust and dirt, but there are also diluted trails of red.

_“Don’t be childish, rat! You made your bed and now you must lie in it!”_

Every moment, there is more red in the water.

It comes up past Goht’s ankles by two inches. They shouldn’t have to stand in such dirty water, so he picks Them up, and They let him. Their bare feet drip with reddish-brown water before the heavy rain rinses them clean. They watch him, expression indiscernible. When They speak, it is mournful. _“Time’s run out.”_

Wild can’t breathe.

No. _No._

The old man will be fine.

_His old man will be fine, won’t he?_

The Spirit pats his arm. It’s a platitude, a sympathetic gesture, and entirely too final.

There’s a scream building in Wild’s chest—a scream with nowhere to go, no way out, because his throat is closed so tight no sound can escape. He walks forward in a daze, only half-aware of his surroundings, listening to the splash of his boots in that too-red water.

“Don’t fuss now, Hero, you’ll be found soon. In fact, I believe you have been already. Isn’t that nice?”

Wild steps around the corner. Time is slumped on the ground, propped up against one wall of the narrow alley, head hanging down and limbs limp like a puppet with cut strings. The figure crouched next to him rocks back on its heels. All Wild can see is skinny limbs and a mask of some kind.

“And that’s my cue to leave, Hero,” they say, reaching out and patting Time’s cheek. His head lolls to the side, but he doesn’t otherwise react. “You’ve been a wonderful partner—if a bit of a boring one, without Gyorg’s touch—but you earned this fate, terrible though it may be.”

They don’t stand and turn to Wild, so much as they suddenly _are_ standing and facing Wild, without moving in-between. He trembles, frozen in place, and all that is real in the world is the mask on their face. They wave, almost cheerfully, and the spell is broken. “Say hello to Mother for me, won’t you?” they say, and then they’re at the far end of the alley, then gone.

Wild doesn’t bother to stop them.

Wild has more important things to worry about.

Wild lifts Goht up onto his shoulders and drops to his knees in front of Time. Time, who still hasn’t moved. Time, whose chest is still. Wild grabs his wrist, checking for a pulse even though he knows he won’t find one.

Time’s skin is as cold as the wind and the rain and the February air.

“Wake up!” Wild shouts, a sudden fury burning in his chest. He drops Time’s arm, and in a fit of frenzy he strikes the old man’s shoulder. He doesn’t know what he expected, but the lack of reaction is more than he can take. “Wake _up!”_

His words echo for a moment, then the wind snatches them away and all that remains is rain.

Rain, and tears.

“Dad, wake up, _please.”_

Wild doesn’t know how long he’s been kneeling in the rain when the melody begins to play. He almost doesn’t notice it at first—he might not have noticed at all, if not for Goht sliding off of his shoulders. It grows steadily louder, until he can hear it clearly. Until it is louder than the wind, louder than the rain, louder than the storm. Until it is almost deafening. The same five bars, repeating. The notes dance before his eyes, sheet music written in light, hanging in the air, rippling with magic.

With the magic of the goddesses. He doesn’t know why he knows its touch, but it can be nothing else.

Then Wild is falling, backwards, through the ground, through the mist, through the gray. Goht, unmoved from Their place in the alley, stands before him. _“You did your best,”_ They say.

 _It wasn’t enough,_ hangs unsaid between them.

They pat his arm a second time, and the skin beneath Their hand begins to burn. They turn away, walk back towards Time (towards Time’s _body),_ and when Wild looks down the five-bar melody is branded around his wrist like a shackle. A monument to his failure.

Wild finally stops falling.

And Wild forgets.

**Author's Note:**

>  _Oh my gosh_ this chapter is finally done. Y'all, this has taken. So long. In light of that, this will be _extremely_ slow to update--I expect each chapter will take at least a month, possibly two.
> 
> Also, I'm doing a fair bit of reinterpreting canon here, so if something looks like it's not canon-compliant, it's probably on purpose.
> 
> Don't @ me re: recipes or legal speak, I did my best but google can only help so much.


End file.
